Читать книгу Val McDermid 3-Book Crime Collection: A Place of Execution, The Distant Echo, The Grave Tattoo - Val McDermid, Val McDermid - Страница 17

Wednesday, 11^th December 1963. 9.07 p.m.

The dog’s breath swirled and hung in the night air as if it had a life of its own. The Alsatian sat calmly on its haunches, ears pricked, alert eyes scanning Scardale village green. PC Dusty Miller, the dog handler, stood by his charge, one hand absently fingering the short tan and brindle hair between its ears. ‘Prince’ll need some clothes and shoes belonging to the lass,’ he told Sergeant Lucas. ‘The more she’s worn them, the better. We can manage without, but it’d help the dog.’

‘I’ll have a word with Mrs Hawkin,’ George interjected before Lucas could assign anyone to the task. It wasn’t that he thought a uniformed officer would be deficient in tact; he simply wanted another chance to observe Alison Carter’s mother and her husband.

He walked into the warm fug of the kitchen, where Hawkin was still sitting at the table, still smoking. Now he had a cup of tea in front of him, as did the WPC who sat at the other end of the table. They both looked up as he entered. Hawkin raised his eyebrows in a question. George shook his head. Hawkin pursed his lips and rubbed a hand over his eyes. George was pleased to see the man finally showing some signs of concern for his stepdaughter’s fate. That Alison might be in real danger seemed finally to have penetrated his self-absorption.

Ruth Hawkin was at the sink, her hands among the suds in the washing-up bowl. But she wasn’t doing the dishes. She was motionless, staring intently into the unbroken dark of the night. The moonlight barely penetrated the area behind the house; this far down the valley, the tall limestone reefs were close enough to cut off most of it. There was nothing beyond the window but a faint, dark outline against the grey-white of the cliffs. An outbuilding of some sort, George guessed. He wondered if it had been searched yet. He cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Hawkin…’

Slowly, she turned. Even in the brief time they’d been in Scardale, she seemed to have aged, the skin tightening across her cheekbones and her eyes sinking back into her head. ‘Yes?’

‘We need some of Alison’s clothes. To help the tracker dog.’

She nodded. ‘I’ll fetch something.’

‘The dog handler suggested some shoes, and something she’s worn a few times. A jumper or a coat, I suppose.’

Ruth walked out of the room with the automatic step of the sleepwalker. ‘I wonder if I could use your phone again,’ George asked.

‘Be my guest,’ Hawkin said, waving his hand towards the hallway.

George followed Ruth through the door and made for the table where the old-fashioned black Bakelite phone squatted on a piecrust table next to a wedding photograph of a radiant Ruth with her new husband. If Hawkin hadn’t been so handsomely unmistakable, George doubted he would have identified the bride.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, he felt icy coldness grip him. If the girl was used to living in temperatures like this, she’d stand a better chance outside, he thought. He could see Ruth Hawkin disappear round the turn in the stairs as he lifted the receiver and began to dial. Four rings, then it was picked up. ‘Buxton four-two-two,’ the familiar voice said, instantly soothing his anxieties.

‘Anne, it’s me. I’ve had to go out to Scardale on a case. A missing girl.’

‘The poor parents,’ Anne said instantly. ‘And poor you, having that to deal with on a night like this.’

‘It’s the girl I’m worried about. Obviously, I’m going to be late. In fact, depending on what happens, I might not be back at all tonight.’

‘You push yourself too hard, George. It’s bad for you, you know. If you’re not back by bedtime, I’ll make up some sandwiches and leave them in the fridge so there’s something for you to eat. They’d better be gone by the time I get up,’ she added, her scolding only half teasing.

If Ruth Hawkin hadn’t reappeared on the stairs, he’d have told Anne how much he loved the way she cared about him. Instead, he simply said, ‘Thanks. I’ll be in touch when I can,’ and replaced the receiver. He moved to the foot of the stairs to meet Ruth, who was clutching a small bundle to her chest. ‘We’re doing all we can,’ he said, knowing it was inadequate.

‘I know,’ she said. She opened her arms to reveal a pair of slippers and a crumpled flannelette pyjama jacket. ‘Will you give these to the dog man?’

George took the clothes, noting with a stab of nameless emotion how pathetic the circumstances had rendered the blue velveteen slippers and the pink sprigged jacket. Holding them gingerly, to avoid contamination with his scent, George walked back through the kitchen and out into the night air. Wordlessly, he handed the items to Miller and watched while the dog handler spoke soft words of command to Prince, offering the garments to its long nose.

The dog raised its head delicately, as if scenting some culinary delight on the wind. Then it started nosing the ground by the front door, its head swinging to and fro in long arcs, inches above the ground. Every few feet, it gave a snorting snuffle then looked up, thrusting its nostrils towards Alison’s clothes and her scent, as if reminding itself what it was supposed to be seeking. Dog and handler moved forward in tandem, covering every inch of the path from the kitchen door. Then, at the very edge of the dirt track that skirted the back of the village green, the Alsatian suddenly stiffened. As rigid as a child playing statues, Prince paused for long seconds, hungrily drinking in the scent from the scrubby grass. Then in one smooth, liquid motion, the dog moved swiftly across the grass, its body close to the ground, its nose seeming to pull it forward in a low lope.

PC Miller quickened his step to keep up with the dog. On a nod from Sergeant Lucas, four of the uniformed men who’d arrived minutes after the dog team fell into step behind them, fanning out to cover the ground with the cones of their torch beams. George followed them for a few yards, not certain whether he should join their party or wait for the two CID officers he’d summoned but who hadn’t arrived yet.

Their path touched the village green at a tangent then, via a stone stile, into a narrow salient between two cottages that gave out into a larger field. As the dog led them unwaveringly across the field, George heard a car grumbling down the road into the village. As it pulled up behind the cluster of police vehicles already there, he recognized the Ford Zephyr of Detective Sergeant Tommy Clough. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder at the tracker team. Their torches gave their positions away. It wouldn’t be hard to catch up with them. He turned on his heel, strode over to the bulky black car and yanked open the driver’s door. The familiar ruddy harvest moon face of his sergeant grinned up at him. ‘How do, sir,’ Clough said on a wave of beer fumes.

‘We’ve got work to do, Clough,’ George said shortly. Even with a drink in him, Clough would still do a better job than most officers sober. The passenger door slammed and Detective Constable Gary Cragg slouched round the front of the car. He’d watched too many Westerns, George had decided the first time the lanky DC had swaggered into his line of vision. Cragg would have looked fine in a pair of sheepskin chaps with matching Colt pistols slung low on his narrow hips and a ten-gallon hat tipped over his hooded grey eyes. In a suit, he had the air of a man who’s not quite sure how he got where he is, but wishes with all his heart he was somewhere else.

‘Missing girl, is that right, sir?’ he drawled. Even his slow voice would have been more at home in a saloon, asking the bartender for a shot of bourbon. The only saving grace, as far as George could see, was that Cragg showed no signs of being a maverick.

‘Alison Carter. Thirteen years old,’ George briefed them as Clough unfolded his chunky body from under the steering wheel. He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘She lives in the manor house, stepdaughter of the squire. Her and her mother are Scardale natives, though.’

Clough snorted and clamped a tweed cap over his tight brown curls. ‘She’ll not have had the sense to get lost, then. You know about Scardale, don’t you? They’ve all been marrying their cousins for generations. Most of them would be hard pressed to find their backsides in a toilet.’

‘Alison managed to make it to grammar school in spite of her handicaps,’ George pointed out. ‘Which, as I recall, is more than we can say for you, Sergeant Clough.’ Clough glared at the boss who was three years his junior, but said nothing. ‘Alison came home from school at the usual time,’ George continued. ‘She went out with the dog. Neither of them’s been seen since. That was the best part of five hours ago. I want you to do a door-to-door round the village. I want to know who was the last person to see her, where and when.’

‘It’ll have been dark by the time she went out,’ Cragg said.

‘All the same, somebody might have seen her. I’m going to try and catch up with the dog handler, so that’s where I’ll be if you need me. OK?’ As he turned away, a sudden chill thought struck him. He looked round the horseshoe of houses huddled round the green, then swung back to face Clough and Cragg. ‘And every house – I want you to check the kids are where they should be. I don’t want some mother having hysterics tomorrow morning when she discovers her kid’s missing too.’

He didn’t wait for an answer, but set off for the stile. Just before he got there, he checked his stride and turned back to find Sergeant Lucas in the middle of directing the remaining six uniformed officers he’d managed to rustle up from somewhere. ‘Sergeant,’ George said. ‘There’s an outbuilding you can see from the kitchen window of the house. I don’t know if anyone’s checked it yet, but it might be worth taking a look, just in case she didn’t go for her usual walk.’

Lucas nodded and gestured with his head to one of the constables. ‘See what you can see, lad.’ He nodded to George. ‘Much obliged, sir.’

Kathy Lomas stood at her window and watched the darkness swallow the tall man in the mac and the trilby. Illuminated by the headlights of the big car that had just rolled to a halt by the phone box, he’d borne a remarkable resemblance to James Stewart. It should have been a reassuring thought, but somehow it only made the evening’s events all the more unreal.

Kathy and Ruth were cousins, separated by less than a year, connected by blood on both maternal and paternal sides. They had grown into women and mothers side by side. Kathy’s son Derek had been born a mere three weeks after Alison. The families’ histories were inextricably intertwined. So when Kathy, alerted by Derek, had walked into Ruth’s kitchen to find her cousin pacing anxiously, chain-smoking and fretting, she’d felt the stab of fear as strongly as if it had been her own child who was absent.

They’d gone round the village together, at first convinced they would find Alison warming herself at someone else’s fire, oblivious to the passing of time, remorseful at causing her mother worry. But as they drew blank after blank, conviction had shrivelled to hope, then hope to despair.

Kathy stood at the darkened window of Lark Cottage’s tiny front room, watching the activity that had suddenly bloomed in the dismal December night. The plain-clothes detective who had been driving the car, the one who looked like a Hereford bull with his curly poll and his broad head, pushed his car coat up to scratch his backside, said something to his colleague, then started towards her front door, his eyes seeming to meet hers in the darkness.

Kathy moved to the door, glancing towards the kitchen where her husband was trying to concentrate on finishing a marquetry picture of fishing boats in harbour. ‘The police are here, Mike,’ she called.

‘Not before time,’ she heard him grumble.

She opened the door just as the Hereford bull lifted his hand to knock. His startled look turned into a smile as he took in Kathy’s generous curves, still obvious even beneath her wraparound apron. ‘You’ll have come about Alison,’ she said.

‘You’re right, missus,’ he said. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Clough, and this is Detective Constable Cragg. Can we come in a minute?’

Kathy stepped back and let them pass, allowing Clough to brush against her breasts without complaint. ‘The kitchen’s straight ahead. You’ll find my husband in there,’ she said coldly.

She followed them and leaned against the range, trying to warm herself against the cold fear inside, waiting for the men to introduce themselves and settle round the table. Clough turned to her. ‘Have you seen Alison since she got home from school?’

Kathy took a deep breath. ‘Aye. It was my turn to pick up the kids off the school bus. In the winter, one of us always drives up to the lane end to collect them.’

‘Was there anything different about Alison that you noticed?’ Clough asked.

Kathy thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘Nowt.’ She shrugged. ‘She were just the same as usual. Just…Alison. She said cheerio and walked off up the path to the manor. Last I saw of her she was walking through the door, shouting hello to her mum.’

‘Did you see any strangers about? Either on the road or up at the lane end?’

‘I never noticed anybody.’

‘I believe you went round the village with Mrs Hawkin?’ Clough asked.

‘I wasn’t going to leave her on her own, was I?’ Kathy demanded belligerently.

‘How did you come to know Alison was missing?’

‘It was our Derek. He’s not been doing as well as he should have been at school, so I took it on myself to make sure he was doing his homework properly. Instead of letting him go off with Alison and their cousin Janet when they got home from school, I’ve been keeping him in.’

‘She makes him sit at the kitchen table and do all the work his teachers have set him before she’ll let him loose with the girls. Waste of bloody time, if you ask me. The lad’s only going to be a farmer like me,’ Mike Lomas interrupted, his voice a low rumble.

‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ Kathy said grimly. ’I tell you what’s a waste of time. It’s that record player Phil Hawkin bought Alison. Derek and Janet are never away from there, listening to the latest records. Derek was desperate to get over to Alison’s tonight. She’s just got the new Beatles number one, “I Want To Hold Your Hand”. But it was after tea before I let him out. It must have been just before seven. He came back within five minutes, saying Alison had gone out with Shep and hadn’t come home. Of course, I went straight over to see what was what.

‘Ruth was up to high doh. I told her she should check with everybody in the village, just in case Alison had popped in to see somebody and lost track of the time. She’s always sitting with old Ma Lomas, her and her cousin Charlie keeping the old witch company, listening to her memories of the old days. Once Ma gets going, you could sit all night. She’s some storyteller, Ma, and our Alison loves her tales.’

She settled herself more comfortably against the range. Clough could see she was on a roll, and he decided just to let her run and see where her story took them. He nodded. ‘Go on, Mrs Lomas.’

‘Well, we were just about to set off when Phil came in. He said he’d been in his darkroom, messing about with his photographs, and he’d only just noticed the time. He was going on about where was his tea and where was Alison? I told him there were more important things to think about than his belly, but Ruth dished him up a plate of the hotpot she’d had cooking. Then we left him to it and went knocking doors.’ She came to a sudden halt.

‘So you never saw Alison again after she got out of the car coming back from school?’

‘Land Rover,’ Mike Lomas growled.

‘Sorry?’

‘It were a Land Rover, not a car. Nobody has cars down here,’ he said contemptuously.

‘No, I’ve not seen her since she walked in the kitchen door,’ Kathy said. ‘But you’re going to find her, aren’t you? I mean, that’s your job. You are going to find her?’

‘We’re doing our best.’ It was Cragg who trotted out the formulaic placebo.

Before she could utter the angry retort Tommy Clough could see coming, he spoke quickly. ‘What about your lad, Mrs Lomas? Is he where he should be?’

Her mouth dropped open in shock. ‘Derek? Why wouldn’t he be?’

‘Maybe the same reason Alison’s not where she should be.’

‘You can’t say that!’ Mike Lomas jumped to his feet, his cheeks flaming scarlet, his eyes tight with anger.

Clough smiled, spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Nay, don’t take me wrong. All I meant was, you should check in case something’s happened to him an’ all.’

By the time George got over the stile, the lights from the tracker team’s torches were no more than a hazy wavering in the distance. He guessed they had entered some woodland by the way the yellow beams seemed suddenly to disappear and reappear at random. Switching on the torch he’d borrowed from the police Land Rover that had brought some of the men over from Buxton, he hurried across the uneven tufts of coarse grass as quickly as he could.

The trees loomed up sooner than he’d expected. At first, all he could see was undisturbed undergrowth, but swinging the torch to and fro soon revealed a narrow path where the earth was packed hard. George plunged into the woodland, trying to balance haste against caution. The torch beam sent crazy shadows dancing off in every direction, forcing him to concentrate harder on the path than he’d had to do in the field. Frosted leaves crunched under his feet, the occasional twig whipped his face or brushed his shoulder, and everywhere the decaying mushroomy smell of the woodland assailed him. Every twenty yards or so, he snapped off his torch to check his bearings against the lights ahead. Absolute darkness swallowed him, but it was hard to resist the feeling that there were hidden eyes staring at him, following his every move. It was a relief to snap his torch on again. A few minutes into the wood, he realized the lights before him had stopped moving. Putting on a spurt that nearly sent him flying over a tree root, he almost collided with a uniformed constable hurriedly retracing his steps.

‘Have you found her?’ George gasped.

‘No such luck, sir. We have found the dog, though.’

‘Alive?’

The man nodded. ‘Aye. But she’s been tied up.’

‘In silence?’ George asked incredulously.

‘Somebody taped her muzzle shut, sir. Poor beast could barely manage a whimper. PC Miller sent me back to fetch Sergeant Lucas before we did owt.’

‘I’ll take responsibility now,’ George said firmly. ‘But go back anyway and tell Sergeant Lucas what’s happened. I think it might be wise to keep people out of this piece of woodland until daylight. Whatever’s happened to Alison Carter, there might be evidence that we’re destroying right now.’

The constable nodded and took off along the path at a trot. ‘Bloody mountain goats they breed around here,’ George muttered as he blundered on down the path.

The clearing he emerged into was a chiaroscuro of torchlight and strangely elongated shadows. At the far end, a black and white collie strained against a rope tied round a tree. Liquid brown irises stood out against the white of its bulging eyes. The dull pink of the elastoplast that was wound round its muzzle looked incongruous in so pastoral a setting. George was aware of the stares of the uniformed men, looking him over speculatively.

‘I think we should put that dog out of its misery. What do you say, PC Miller?’ he asked, directing his question to the dog handler, who was methodically covering the clearing with Prince.

‘I don’t think she’ll argue with you on that, sir,’ Miller said. ‘I’ll take Prince out of the way so he won’t upset her.’ With a jerk on the dog’s leash and a word of command, he made for the far side of the clearing. George noticed his dog was still casting around as he’d done outside the house earlier.

‘Has he lost the scent?’ he asked, suddenly concerned about more important matters than a dog’s discomfort.

‘Looks like the trail ends here,’ the dog handler said. ‘I’ve been right round the clearing twice, and down the path in the opposite direction. But there’s nothing.’

‘Does that mean she was carried out of here?’ George asked, a cold tremor twitching upwards from his stomach.

‘Like as not,’ Miller said grimly. ‘One thing’s for sure. She didn’t walk out of here unless she turned straight round and walked back to the house. And if that’s what she did, why tie up the bitch and muzzle her?’

‘Maybe she wanted to creep up on her mum? Or her stepdad?’ one of the constables hazarded.

‘The dog wouldn’t have barked at them, would she? So there’d be no need to muzzle her, or leave her behind,’ Miller said.

‘Unless she thought one or other of them might be with a stranger,’ George said, half under his breath.

‘Aye well, my money says she never left this clearing under her own steam.’ Miller spoke with finality as he walked his dog down the path.

George approached the dog cautiously. The whimper in the dog’s throat turned to a soft grumble. What had Ruth Hawkin called it? Shep, that was it. ‘OK, Shep,’ he said gently, holding his hand out so the dog could sniff his fingers. The growl died away. George hitched up his trousers and kneeled down, the frozen ground uneven and ungenerous beneath his knees. Automatically, he noticed the elastoplast was the thicker kind, from a roll two inches wide with a half-inch band of lint bulging up the middle of it. ‘Steady, girl,’ he said, one hand gripping the thick hair at the scruff of the dog’s neck to hold her head still. With his other hand, he picked at the end of the elastoplast till he had freed enough to pull clear. He looked up. ‘One of you, come over here and hold the dog’s head while I get this stuff off.’

One of the constables straddled the nervous collie and grasped her head firmly. George gripped the end of the elastoplast strip and pulled it as hard as he could. Inside a minute, he’d yanked the last of it free, narrowly avoiding the snapping teeth of the collie, panicking in response to having chunks of her fur ripped away with the tape. The constable behind her hastily jumped clear as she swung round to try her chances with him. As soon as she realized her mouth was free, Shep dropped to the ground and began to bark furiously at the men. ‘What do we do now, sir?’ one of the constables asked.

‘I’m going to untie her and see where she wants to take us,’ George said, sounding more confident than he felt. He walked forward cautiously, but the dog showed no sign of wanting to attack him. He took out his penknife and sawed through the rope. It was easier than trying to untie it while the dog was straining against it. And it had the advantage of preserving the knot, just in case there was anything distinctive about it. George thought not; it looked pretty much like a standard reef knot to him.

Instantly, Shep lunged forward. Taken by surprise, George gouged a slice out of his thumb as he tried to hold on to the sheepdog. ‘Damn!’ he exploded as the rope whirled through his fingers, burning the skin where it touched. One of the constables attempted to grab the rope as the dog fled, but failed. George clutched his bleeding hand and watched helplessly as the dog raced down the path Miller and Prince had taken from the clearing.

Moments later, there was the sound of a scuffle and Miller’s voice shouting sternly, ‘Sit.’ Then silence. Then an eerie howling split the night.

Groping in his pocket for a handkerchief, George followed the dog’s path. A dozen yards into the wood, he came upon Miller and the two dogs. Prince lay on the ground, his muzzle between his paws. Shep sat on the ground, her head lifted towards the sky, her mouth opening and closing in a long series of heart-stopping wails. Miller held the rope, securing the straining collie. ‘She seems to want to go this way,’ Miller said, gesturing with his head down the path away from the clearing.

‘Let’s follow her, then,’ George said. He wrapped his bleeding thumb with the handkerchief then took the rope from the handler. ‘Come on, girl,’ he encouraged the collie. ‘Show me.’ He shook the rope.

Immediately, Shep bounded to her feet and set off down the trail, tail wagging. They wove through the trees for a couple of minutes, then the track emerged from the trees on to the banks of a narrow, fast-flowing stream. The dog promptly sat down and looked back at him, her tongue hanging out and her eyes bewildered.

‘That’d be the Scarlaston,’ Miller’s voice said behind him. ‘I knew it rose in these parts. Funny river. I’ve heard tell it just sort of seeps out of the ground. If we have a dry summer, it sometimes vanishes altogether.’

‘Where does it lead?’ George asked.

‘I’m not sure. I think it flows either into the Derwent or the Manifold, I can’t remember which. You’d have to look at a map for that.’

George nodded. ‘So if Alison was carried out of the clearing, we’d lose the trail here anyway.’ He sighed and turned away, guiding his torch beam over his watch. It was almost quarter to ten. ‘There’s nothing more we can do in darkness. Let’s head back to the village.’

He practically had to drag Shep away from the Scarlaston’s edge. As they made their slow progress back to Scardale, George fretted about Alison Carter’s disappearance. Nothing made sense. If someone was ruthless enough to kidnap a young girl, surely they wouldn’t show mercy to a dog? Especially a dog as lively as Shep. He couldn’t imagine a dog with the collie’s spirit meekly submitting to having elastoplast tightly wound round its muzzle. Unless it had been Alison who’d done the deed?

If it had been Alison, had she acted on her own initiative or had she been forced to silence her own dog? And if she’d done it for her own ends, where was she now? If she’d been going to run away, why not take the dog with her for protection, at least until dawn broke? The more he thought about it, the less he understood.

George trudged out of the woods and through the field, the reluctant dog trailing at his heels. George found Sergeant Lucas conferring with PC Grundy in the light of a hurricane lamp hanging from the back of the Land Rover. Briefly, he explained the scenario in the woods. ‘There’s no point in trampling through there in the dark,’ he said. ‘I reckon the best we can do is put a couple of men on guard and at first light, we search the woodland inch by inch.’

Both men looked at him as if he’d gone mad. ‘With respect, sir, if you’re intending to keep the villagers out of the wood, there’s not a lot of point in leaving a couple of men to catch frostbite in the field,’ Lucas said wearily. ‘The locals know the lie of the land far better than we do. If they want to get into those woods, they will, and we’ll never know about it. Besides, I don’t think there’s a soul in the place who hasn’t already volunteered to help searching. If we tell them what’s what, they’ll be the last ones to destroy any possible clues.’

He had a point, George realized. ‘What about outsiders?’

Lucas shrugged. ‘All we have to do is post a guard on the gate on the road. I don’t imagine anybody’ll be keen enough to hike in from the next dale. It’s a treacherous path up the Scarlaston banks at the best of times, never mind on a frosty winter night.’

‘I’m happy to trust your judgement, Sergeant,’ George said. ‘I take it your men have been searching the houses and outbuildings?’

‘That’s right. Not a trace of the girl,’ Lucas said, his naturally cheery face as sombre as it could manage. ‘The building out the back of the manor, it’s where the squire develops his photographs. Nowhere for a lass to hide in there.’

Before George could respond, Clough and Cragg appeared from the shadows on the village green. Both looked as cold as he felt, the collars of their heavy winter coats turned up against the chill wind that whistled up the valley. Cragg was flipping back the pages of his notebook. ‘Any progress?’ George asked.

‘Not so’s you’d notice,’ Clough complained, offering his cigarettes round the group. Only Cragg took one. ‘We spoke to everybody, including the cousins she came back from school with. It was Mrs Kathy Lomas’s turn to pick them up at the road end, which she did as per usual. The last she saw of Alison, the lass was walking in the kitchen door of the manor. So the mother’s telling the truth about the lass getting home in one piece. Mrs Lomas went indoors with her lad and never saw Alison again. Nobody saw hide nor hair of the girl after she came home from school. It’s like she vanished into thin air.’